Sunday, 24 January 2010

Bad Apple

Come and meet me its nice and clean,
I’m sat amongst the mould and gangrene.
Where your heart has rotted down to its core,
Like a bad apple from a good tree, I want more.

I give you cold shoulder, you look away,
Then we cross paths on the moors where we played
Stagnant music from a rusted Dansette,
And we dance in the storm ‘till our clothes get wet.

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